A KITCHEN FEUD.
WHEN the postern had finally closed upon mademoiselle, I advanced
cautiously through the darkness. It had occurred to me that the outer
gate might be closed for the night, in which case I should find myself
caught in a trap. The house was dark and quiet now, the boyar’s guest
having evidently departed.
To my consternation, the front gate was indeed locked, and I stood
perplexed. A noise from the other side of the house suggested a
possible exit by the kitchen way, and I crept cautiously along close
to the wall, looking for it. The door at the back of the house stood
wide open, and the stream of light from it, while it increased my risk,
served also to show me the side gate, standing ajar. I had not a moment
to lose; to be caught here and compelled to explain my presence to the
boyar would be a sorry fate. I heard loud talking and laughing in the
kitchen, which a little reassured me, as the servants were evidently
enjoying a merry evening, and therefore less likely to be watchful.
A little natural curiosity, and also a desire to learn as much of
Zénaïde’s surroundings as I could, impelled me to approach near enough
to peep into the interior: a low-ceiled room, stained with smoke from
the huge fireplace, and gloomy as such a place could be, when lighted
and filled with people. The cook, with naked, brawny arms akimbo,
stood before the fire turning some meat upon the spit; and a dozen
other serfs were gathered about a table playing at dice, or watching
it, and drinking _kvas_. It was not an attractive picture, not even
homely; but there was a surprise there for me: I saw in the group the
cowardly fellow who had been whipped in the contest in the Red Place. I
remembered his face well; it had still something of the evil and mean
expression that had marked it when Peter Lykof dragged his servant off
his fallen adversary. The place he occupied now at the table, and his
dress, declared him to be no less a person than the boyar’s major-domo.
The fellow had an evil face and a hang-dog look about the eyes, and I
was not pleased to find him occupying a post of trust in the house. One
could easily buy his soul for a couple of francs, being sure that he
would sell again to the next highest bidder, and so cancel the previous
bad bargain. I was amused to see that the miserable coward of a few
hours ago was now a considerable braggart, assuming an air of authority
among his fellow servants.
There was little danger that my presence would be observed, and I
walked slowly across the courtyard, and slipping through the half open
gate, stood in the street. It was dark, but yet it seemed to me that as
I appeared a figure dashed away from the postern and crept along by the
wall. Remembering that I had noticed a similar appearance at the front
of the house, I half unsheathed my sword and advanced in the direction
in which the figure had gone, my taste for adventure still keen, and
moreover determined to know if any spy lurked about the Ramodanofsky
house. The darkness and the shadow of the wall were both unfavorable
to my purpose; but nothing daunted, I proceeded, my eyes fixed keenly
on the darkest portion under the overhanging cornice. Seeing nothing,
I was not a little startled by a sudden blow which, just missing my
temple, fell roundly on my shoulder. I sprang aside, and drawing my
sword, was on the defensive; but my unknown adversary leaped upon me
with the agility and ferocity of a wild animal, and I found my sword
arm pinioned as we closed in a fierce grapple. I had no desire to rouse
the house by any outcry, and, for some reason, my assailant was equally
silent. I had as much as I could do to keep his hands from my throat.
“_Ma foi!_” I exclaimed bitterly, “this is Russian fighting!”
My words had a magical effect; my strange adversary released me and
stumbled back. But my blood was up, and it was my turn to attack him;
however, he dodged me with wonderful dexterity.
“Leave me alone, your excellency,” he said in poor French; “I struck by
mistake. I beg your pardon.”
His voice was familiar, and putting two and two together, in a flash of
intuition, I hit upon the truth.
“You are Michael Gregorievitch!” I exclaimed, “Peter Lykof’s attendant;
and you took me for your friend the steward.”
“Even so, my lord,” he admitted with evident reluctance in his tone.
“My master would be very angry if he knew of my mistake.”
“Unless my memory plays me false, your master forbade you to meddle
with this same steward,” I remarked dryly. “His displeasure does not
seem to affect you deeply.”
“He would not submit as tamely as I do in a like case,” returned
Michael, sullenly.
“I must admit,” I said lightly, “that I can understand your repugnance
to the sleek steward; his countenance is sufficiently unlovely to tempt
an honest man to beat him; but the ardor of your resentment seems a
little ill-timed and treacherous.”
“Treacherous!” The man was choking with his intense anger. “No
treachery could be great enough for Boris Polotsky!”
My interest was roused, and moreover I saw the possibility of obtaining
a warm adherent in this fellow.
“You have a grievance, Michael,” I said pleasantly, “and I sympathize
warmly with your detestation of this man; what is your especial wrong?”
The fellow hesitated for a moment, and I seemed to feel his keen eyes
trying to see my face in the darkness.
“I have suffered many wrongs from him,” he said bitterly, falling into
the Russian tongue, and therefore speaking more volubly; “he is a very
devil, and the devil’s emissary. In every way in which one man can hurt
another, he has injured me.”
“For instance, wedding your sweetheart?” I suggested lightly.
The man swore under his breath.
“He stole my wife away from me, for one thing, and afterwards beat her
to death!” he exclaimed passionately.
I started; what a fit servant for Vladimir Sergheievitch!
“At least, she was punished for her infidelity,” I remarked dryly.
“She was more foolish than wicked at the first,” the fellow protested
with a break in his harsh voice; “but that smooth-tongued fellow made
her his tool and dupe. He is well placed,” he added vindictively, “a
fiend, and the servant of one!” and he shook his fist vehemently at the
dark house.
My mind was full of speculations; it was evident that there was
something here that did not appear upon the surface.
“You have a cause of complaint, then, against the Boyar Ramodanofsky
also?” I asked with an assumption of carelessness.
I could feel rather than see that the man received a shock at my words,
suddenly awakening to the fact that he was making admissions that might
be dangerous.
“I have said too much,” he stammered. “There is too great a gulf
between the boyar and a humble man like me for any quarrel.”
“Ay,” I said, with a purpose, “unless you take to heart your master’s
grievances.”
There was a pause. I knew that I had startled the fellow, and he was
not sufficiently adroit to escape from the trap into which he had
fallen; I could hear his labored breath, and divined that he was in a
cold sweat of anxiety and alarm.
“My master has no grievances,” he blurted out, evidently sore pressed
for an evasion. “I am but a fool to speak of my own.”
“Your master strikes me as one who might have many,” I replied coolly;
then, taking pity on a confusion that I understood without seeing it:
“You have nothing to fear,” I said reassuringly; “I am not a friend
of the boyar’s, though I did come out of his gate,” and I laughed a
little, silently, at the thought of my strange exit.
“Your excellency is wise,” the fellow exclaimed earnestly; “no man is
safe in such friendship.”
“Like master like man, you think, then, my good Michael,” I said
lightly. “It is certain that I shall remember your fists for a while,
and I venture to predict that Polotsky will presently have enough of
them.”
“I beg your pardon a thousand times, my lord,” stammered the man,
evidently divided between a desire to establish himself in my good
graces, and to escape my inquiries.
“You have it freely,” I said laughing, “since I escaped with a whole
crown; next time be sure of your adversary, and then be thorough in
your castigation; but take my advice and fight by day, in the open,
like a man.”
“It is rare for me to get the chance,” Michael protested; “he is a
sneak, and hides himself away in secure places.”
“Such vermin usually do,” I replied calmly; “however, I wish you
good-night and good luck, only be sure and be thorough next time.”
As I walked away down the street I laughed a little to myself at the
absurdity of my adventure, ending, as it had, in a narrow escape from
a thrashing at the hands of a lackey. I felt confident that Zénaïde
would soon be rid of one of her uncle’s vilest tools, for Michael would
probably murder Polotsky before many days; and I reflected that a
kitchen feud was not without its advantages.
It was now late, and I proceeded directly to my own quarters, and found
that my man had my supper waiting for me. Pierrot was an invaluable
servant: devoted, accomplished, and discreet. I had obtained much
useful information from this quarter, and I could always depend upon
his fidelity; in fact, it was only that which kept him in Russia, for
he hated it with a cordiality only equalled by his smooth appearance
of complacence. It had cost me not a little trouble to have him
instructed in the Russian tongue; but he amply repaid me by the
usefulness that resulted from his acquirement: without it he could have
been of little service, for it was almost impossible to find a humble
Russian who understood French, or any language but his own. In that
day accomplishments were not frequent, and few Russians spoke French:
Prince Basil Galitsyn, who was in advance of his class, resorting to
Latin in his intercourse with foreigners.
I was tired, and my appetite had been sharpened by a continued fast,
so I sat down to my supper in a very good humor. Pierrot waited upon
me with silent dexterity, and then, retiring to a little distance,
stood watching me with folded arms, and an air which I was not slow to
interpret: he had news, and longed to impart it.
“Well, Pierrot,” I said at last, “were you in the Grand Square to-day?”
“Yes, M. le Vicomte,” he replied eagerly; “and was it not a stirring
sight?”
“Very,” I answered dryly; “and what is the feeling among the people,
Pierrot? Are they pleased with the election?”
Pierrot shook his head with the air of a sage.
“The people have not much to do with it after all,” he said gravely.
“The rabble have not the intelligence of our peasantry.”
This was a heavy judgment, for Pierrot, as an old retainer, looked down
upon the peasantry as the scum of the earth.
“It is the soldiers here,” he went on, evidently glad to speak his
mind; “they have the upper hand. I can’t understand this Streltsi.”
I laughed. “Few of us can, I suspect, Pierrot,” I said; “the Streltsi,
or archers, were established by Ivan the Terrible, as a kind of
national guard. Their duties descend from father to son, and they have
ever been a privileged class.”
“They are ill to guide, monsieur,” Pierrot remarked sagely, as he
handed me the wine.
“And what do they think?” I inquired, not a little amused but also
curious.
“They are angry,” Pierrot replied, lowering his voice as if he fancied
that one of them was under the table; “they do not love the Czarina
Natalia’s relations and--” Pierrot glanced cautiously over his
shoulder; “the Czarevna Sophia has been trying to influence them for
the Czarevitch Ivan. There are twenty-two regiments, and only one of
them is favorable to the young czar.”
“All that seems to be apparent enough, Pierrot,” I remarked quietly.
“That is not all, M. le Vicomte,” he said eagerly; “they are plotting
against the Department of the Streltsi; they hate both the Princes
Dolgoruky and their own officers. It is rumored to-day that there will
be a riot if something is not done, and if there is!” Pierrot lifted
his eyes and hands, a picture of horror.
“What will be the consequence?” I asked, though I knew well enough, and
it took the relish away from my supper.
“If the officers are not sacrificed,” Pierrot said in a dreadful
undertone, “they will have blood, and it will be the boyars, perhaps
the Czarevitch Peter.”
“The czar, you mean,” I corrected testily, for I knew that he was
touching the truth very nearly. “They will not dare to harm him.”
Pierrot shook his head gloomily.
“You have not heard them, M. le Vicomte,” he said in a tone of
melancholy pity for my credulity; “they are after blood, like wolves;
and if it comes to that, there will not be a house safe for a boyar to
hide in Moscow!”
I pushed back my chair and rose from the table with an angry gesture.
“You forget, Pierrot,” I said tartly, “that these men were born to
obey; they cannot resist the imperial authority.”
I said it more for my own comfort than for his conviction, for I was
sick at heart, and could think of nothing but the young girl in the
house of a boyar who was both feared and despised. Meanwhile, Pierrot
had the air of not desiring to contradict his superior, even in his
folly,--an air peculiar to Pierrot, and especially irritating.
“The Russians are very bloodthirsty, M. le Vicomte,” he said, by way
of a mild remonstrance, “and there is no one now at the head of the
government but a boy and a woman.”
“There is a great deal of awe felt of a czar, my good Pierrot,” I
replied lightly, “and presently they will have the chancellor back
again; and you know the Streltsi once took stones from the graves of
their fathers to build him a house.”
But Pierrot still continued to shake his head with aggravating
solemnity.